


The One Instrument Symphony

by night_reveals



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Comeplay, Dominance, M/M, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-29
Updated: 2011-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-25 15:58:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/night_reveals/pseuds/night_reveals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are nights that Arthur can't reach dreamland without something warm to fill him up -- but don't worry; Eames is up to the job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Instrument Symphony

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this [prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/17669.html?thread=36499461#t36499461): _Arthur likes to fall asleep with Eames' cock still inside him._  
>  Note: _morendo_ is italian, used in music for “dying away.”  
>  Cleaned up a smidge and reposted on AO3 from my LJ.

It's not his fault he can't sleep some nights.

That's what Arthur always thinks as soon as his bliss trickles away, in that moment when he's empty and leaking come out down his thigh, his hole tightening back up as its little creases and ridges grasp for something to hold onto in a way that his arms never do.

Behind him he hears Eames gasp, a wretched sound, and his hand makes its way down Arthur's body. It rolls Arthur to his side on the bed, letting the thick come drip out straight onto their cotton sheets.

“Fuck, you were beautiful,” gasps Eames, still high on his own orgasm and playing in the sweat of Arthur's body, hands drifting here and there to tweak a nipple or smooth a muscle down, every touch practiced, perfect.

Arthur can't admit it to himself but some nights he turns into an instrument, one that only Eames knows, that only Eames can coax a note out of. It's embarrassing to think of and so Arthur doesn't, instead choosing to lose himself in the press of Eames' fingers on him, to ride the crescendos of pleasure, to relax silently in the following morendos.

Eames' hand knows where it should go next and Arthur bites his lip in anticipation, this moment always a treasured one – and he feels it then, the swirl of Eames' finger along his puffy, leaking hole spreading come around in something like a declaration, a warning to others: _stay away_.

Not that they could play Arthur, anyway.

Eames is dragging it out longer than usual, this time, so Arthur growls, “Do it” over his shoulder and Eames huffs laughter against Arthur's skin only to give it a quick nip, spit and tooth on flesh in a rough parody of a kiss.

“Patience, patience,” returns Eames, but he must not be too upset about Arthur's lack of that virtue because only seconds later his finger is teasing its way into Arthur. Come eases the way and when his finger makes it to the first knuckle Eames pulls, slightly, opening Arthur up, and Arthur feels a hot slide of more wet dribble out, a dirty flow that marks him. Eames sighs at the sight while Arthur bites back his keen, viciously tamping it down –

“Now, Arthur. You know I don't like it when you do that,” whispers Eames in his ear, blazing but languid as he slowly works his finger a bit deeper; Arthur thinks Eames considers it a reclamation of _his_ space, carving Arthur's hole out all over again just so everyone will damn well know whose prick belongs in there.

The strange thing is that Arthur can't seem to mind. Wouldn't do to let Eames know that, though.

“F-fuck you,” says Arthur, or tries to say, but the slide of Eames' finger higher, deeper, means his voice stutters and catches on his lip, a moan coming out along with the words.

Dodgy bastard that he is Eames just laughs, hearty this time, and replies, “You like to take it. No crime there,” and _shoves_ another finger up, just the right side of harsh.

It's two fingers, and yeah, that's not much compared to what's been in Arthur before – Eames himself for one, and that dildo, and that plug, and – but it's two fingers right after he's been fucked, thumped through the bed and hitched back onto Eames, gasping out into the night. His opening is a dark, dark pink with white flecks circling it, its surrounding tissue raised from being abraded and toyed with for hours, and every touch from Eames there sends ragged shivers through Arthur's body.

Eames presses his sweaty head against Arthur's back then moves it up to nuzzle his neck, nose pressing the skin he finds beneath Arthur's ear in an almost affectionate gesture. “You're humming again,” he observes in a hushed cadence, and Arthur wonders when Eames' voice started to lose its former mocking conceit, wonders what exactly has replaced it -- he can't tell.

If Eames' voice is newly reverent his fingers are hardly so, pressing and sliding out of Arthur slowly, allowing Eames to catch every tangled breath Arthur takes, every little sigh as he's filled up again.

Then, latching his lips to Arthur's ear lobe, tongue thick around the cartilage, “I'm putting my fist up there next week,” promises Eames, and Arthur can't help the long moan at even thinking, even dreaming of feeling that whole hand, four fingers and a thumb all for him and stroking – “I knew you'd like that.”

Arthur can make out the silver curve of Eames' smile against him, pressing itself, mold-like, into Arthur's spine.

“You're getting me hard again,” groans out Eames, rubbing a hand reassuringly along Arthur's flank, his fingers wet with come and lube from where he's pulled out of the clench of Arthur's ass. “I'm going to fill you up, don't you worry.”

Arthur's arms are finally free to move when he hears those words, and he lets himself relax into the bed a bit more, his palm trailing up blindly behind him to Eames' face, just rubbing the harsh, golden hairs that pepper his cheeks like fine sanding paper. It's an exercise in excess, a touch he rarely permits himself, but tonight – tonight he deserves it, and he's so tired he can't hold back his needs, any of them.

Traces of Eames' come begin to coat his body as Eames' hand explores the dip of Arthur's hip, the cave of his belly-button, the slopes of his chest. Eames is not a musician now but simply a dog scenting its territory, all its land well-known but constantly in need of marking and reminding. He is almost rough in his search, sometimes pinching skin, rolling Arthur's nipples till Arthur hisses, but then he goes back to Arthur's hole, dips his finger in his own come one last time and brings it to Arthur's lips.

“Open up, darling,” he says, steady and implacable.

Arthur opens his mouth to say _no_ or _get that out of my face_ or simply _fuck off_ , but as soon as his jaw unhinges Eames pushes forward, outwitting Arthur's teeth to press his seed-coated index finger onto Arthur's tongue, an explosion of sour and heat and need.

“You try and protest every time, don't you?” asks Eames as Arthur moans, helpless and demeaned, around his finger. Arthur feels Eames lever himself up to look down at the suckling and it's Eames' turn to lose control, his voice wavering, “That's beautiful, that is.”

When Arthur's cleaned the finger and swallowed Eames spunk down, he lets the hand drop from his open mouth. “I need to sleep,” and he means his voice to be hard, an order, but it's comes out as a half-formed note of exhortation, barely there but hanging between them, making the air murky.

“I know, I know,” shushes Eames. The sheets below them shift, pulling at Arthur's body for a tick as Eames readjusts behind him and slowly runs one hand up his prick to make it ready for Arthur again. “Help me in,” says Eames, even as he nudges Arthur's ass.

Arthur lets one hand reach behind him, grasp the shaft – still wet, newly hard, oversensitive judging by Eames' gasp – and brushes it against his own abused hole. It's suddenly dark and that's the only way Arthur knows his eyelids have fluttered down; his mouth hurts and that's the only way he knows he's savaging his lip – he's not in control of his body anymore, when it's like this, Eames pressing against him to help sleep come.

Behind him a drawn-out moan caresses Arthur, playing around his ear even as Eames takes over, tilting his body into Arthur's in a slow, dirty slide. His cock knows it has arrived home and Arthur can feel their bodies slotting together, Eames' heartbeat becoming his own. Body on tenterhooks with every nerve quick-firing and raw, Arthur thinks he can sense every vein, every perfect imperfection on Eames' cock right up until his patch of blond, unruly hair grazes Arthur's ass, a little _hello_.

Harsh breathing in his ear is the one indication that this is difficult for Eames, to be in Arthur but not move for an hour or more. The instrument that Arthur becomes on these nights is incapable of remorse or guilt, only knows the feeling of _rightness_ that Eames gives it, that puts its worries back to bed.

Full and some sort of content, Arthur can finally let the pillow beneath him envelop his skull, let his head turn-off, become just a thing with no feelings or thoughts.

“Sleep tight,” whispers Eames, voice scratchy and brimming with something but Arthur doesn't reply, too caught up in this morendo to even consider the musician behind it.

It's not Arthur's fault he can't sleep some nights.


End file.
